The Hospital

So I made it to Atlanta on Monday afternoon, February 24, 2014.  Lateef was home alone and we got to spend an hour or two catching up before we had to pick Jade up from basketball practice.  It was fun.  I didn’t get too much alone time with my son, where he was totally focused on our conversation (every mother’s lament) so I considered this precious time.  He had undergone surgery for a benign brain tumor 9 months before that and though his recovery was rocky, he was now back at the CNN Wires desk and loving his job more than ever.  I asked him how he felt.  He told me that his brain felt sharp again and that he thought his stories were better than ever.  Then he said “Let’s not jinx it—let’s talk about something else.” So we did.

We picked Jade up and later, Aileen came in with Ami.  We had dinner together and Lateef started getting ready for work.  When he came downstairs, he was dressed in a dark suit with a beautiful blue shirt (his favorite color) and striped tie.  He looked fantastic.  I remember saying to him: “You look wonderful.  Your work group is going to stand up and give you a round of applause because you look so good! Do you always go to work like this?”  He said “No, but I should!”.  I gave him a hug, he kissed Aileen and went off to work in my car—happy.  I am so happy that the last thing I said to him was loving and complimentary.  I am glad that I was not harping on him for something he shouldn’t have done or could be doing better.  No regrets there.

At about midnight, the door of my room opened.  Aileen came in, and turned on the light. She was talking on the phone and her eyes were as big as saucers.  I could hear from her tone of voice that there was an emergency and I knew with every bone in my body that something was wrong with Lateef.  I threw off the covers and started putting on my clothes—no questions asked. 

Lateef had suffered seizures at his desk and they had taken him to Grady Memorial Hospital by ambulance.  We got there somehow and were finally allowed to see him in emergency.  He was hooked to so many machines and he was sedated—it was scary.  My heart was somewhere in my throat—certainly not where it was supposed to be.  They told us that he had probably just eaten and that he had aspirated food into his lungs.  There was some lung damage and he would be moved to Intensive Care.  As these arrangements were being made, Aileen and I stood by his bedside—each clutching one of his hands.  I did not know how bad it was at that time but I started thinking about him as a little boy and about how much I loved him, just willing him to get better.

From North Carolina to Georgia

And so we had a funeral—a celebration of Ted’s life really. It was difficult—more than difficult, but we got through it.  Friends and family attended Ted’s funeral, bought food, sent condolences and supported us in ways too many to number.  So many attended Ted’s funeral.  He would have been so happy.  He typically underestimated the impact he had upon people.

Much of the planning had already been done.  I knew exactly what Ted wanted, his obituary had been written months before and so, when we met with the minister to discuss funeral specifics, there weren’t a lot of blanks to be filled in.  My minister wanted to know something about Ted. Though I was an active member of my church, Ted did not attend so the minister asked many questions—trying to get to know Ted in anticipation of his eulogy—looking for his essence. I remember it like it was yesterday—Lateef wanted the minister to know that even though Ted did not attend church and was not a religious man, he was a good and honest man who did believe in a higher power—he told the minister how instrumental Ted was in his life and the lives of others and directed him to the video that Rashida had put together to get another dimension of this man we were mourning. The video became an integral part of the minister’s speech.  Happy Feelings became the theme of Ted’s funeral.

The picture below shows our family at Ted’s funeral.   Left to right: Rashida, Me, Lateef, Jade (Lateef’s 13-year old daughter), Aileen, Ami (Lateef’s 8-year old daughter).  Seated is Nana (Ted’s mother).  To the right are pictures of Ted on the memorial table. Looking at this picture, I wonder why we’re smiling? Perhaps we’re only smiling because that’s what people are programmed to do in front of the camera.  Nana’s face shows the real pain we’re all feeling.

I continued the work necessary to put our home on the market.  Ted and I had already decided to sell our “retirement” home.  We enjoyed it so much and it was such a peaceful home, but it was way too big for us and when Ted got sick and could no longer take care of the lawn and all of the other strong arm work, we decided we’d better move to something smaller.  So for the past year, we’d been weeding out, getting rid of things we no longer needed in anticipation of a move.  I continued on with that work.

On February 24, 2014—1 month from the date that Ted passed away, I left our home with a For Sale sign in front, got in my car and drove down to Atlanta.  The plan was to visit with the grandchildren for a couple of days, leave my car with Lateef since I would not need a car in New York, then fly up to live with Rashida.  Ted had asked me a few weeks before he passed away: “What will you do?” I understand now that that was “the conversation” that people who are dying have with their loved ones.  Most times there’s more discussion than that but Ted and I had talked about everything else so this was the only question left.  I told him that I would live with Rashida in New York.  He seemed pleased and relieved that we would be together and said “Two can live more cheaply than one”.  So I continued on with what we had planned.

Little did I know that in five days my son would pass away and within another week, our family would be attending yet another funeral.

Goodbye My Love

Ted passed away peacefully on January 24, 2014—a scant 10 months after diagnosis of Stage IV duodenal cancer.

Our daughter, Rashida put together a beautiful video with words and music from friends and family telling Ted just what he had meant to them.  He was not well on Christmas morning but he was strong enough to watch the video.  He sat in the middle—I was on one side and Rashida was on the other.  Rashida had gone out by email and asked friends and family to share some thoughts about Ted.  She took those thoughts, wrote them onto large index cards and held them up to the camera—the background music played some of Ted’s favorite songs, Happy Feelings by Frankie Beverly and Maze, Sentimental Mood by Ellington/Coltrane, Kiss of Life by Sade, I’ll Be Loving You Always by Stevie Wonder—his favorite songs—his favorite artists—words from the people who loved him.   It was a beautiful tribute.

Ted is not an emotional person but this day—this Christmas day, he was full of emotion.  He did not cry but his breathing got heavy and I asked him if he could get through it—he said he could.  When the video was over he said “That was the greatest Christmas gift I ever received—my heart is full”.  Coming from Ted, that was quite an accolade. I am so very glad that we got to share this with him—many people don’t really get to know their impact on people before they leave this world—Ted did.

After Christmas, Ted’s health started to take a dip and we went to the doctor for another CT scan.  We got the news that the cancer had taken over most of his liver—there was nowhere to go now but hospice.  And so started the most compassionate part of this journey.  We were assigned a staff of nurses, nurses’s assistants, grief counselors and psychologists who were on call night and day.  These people were so caring—they made Ted’s last 10 days much more manageable than they’d otherwise be.

On January 14^th 2014 Ted went into hospice at home. My minister came and prayed and family and friends started making what would be their last visits.  On January 24^th in the early morning it became apparent that Ted was leaving us.  I called our son, Lateef and told him that he should come—he got to us at around 3 pm. Ted’s mother and sister were on their way traveling by train from New York. When hospice advised us that they probably would not make it, we put the phone up to his ear.  His mother and sister talked to him—I know he heard their voices—his eyelids fluttered.   During the day, we played Ted’s favorite music (Sade) and kept him comfortable with lavender lotion on his face and swabs for his mouth.  Early in the morning as I passed his bedside, I’d call his name and his eyes would pop open, though he could not speak.  As the day went on, his eyes continued to open when his name was called but became more cloudy and by early afternoon, he no longer responded to his name.  We talked to him and held his hand.  He was never alone. During this entire time, hospice was with us. 

At 10:45 pm, Ted took his last breath.  As I had promised Ted, I was holding his hand—Lateef and Rashida were at the bedside.  He left us very quietly--It was the most peaceful exit I have ever seen and I’ve seen a few.  Lateef collapsed on the floor in grief and Rashida and I joined him.  

The News

The diagnosis was a rare cancer—adenocarcinoma of the duodenum.  Where even is the duodenum?  It’s a long tube just below the stomach and above the colon—technically a part of the small intestine. Only 1-3% of the population get this type of cancer and it’s almost never found early because the symptoms are quiet and vague. When it’s found early, it’s usually by mistake—while looking for something else—usually an endoscopy will find it.   Ted’s symptom was stomach distress-acid build up.  We didn’t react to this because as long as we could remember Ted had had stomach problems.  We even kept liquid antacid in our refrigerator (don’t know why he liked it cold) and he constantly swigged from the bottle.  So by the time we realized it was more than the usual stomach upset it was way too late.  The doctor actually told us that the cancer was probably growing for 10 years.  10 years!!!  What where we doing 10 years ago?  Working hard and trying to figure out how to retire early.  Just living life.  So, what do you do when you get a diagnosis like this?  You just put one foot in front of the other and do what’s in front of you,.

So the good news was that Ted could have an operation to bypass the mass so that he could eat without distress.  The bad news?  His cancer was Stage IV and had metastasized to the liver. He had 1-2 years—with chemo, a few months more.  We were devastated but we didn’t stop there. A second opinion at Duke , phone calls to Cancer Centers of America and Sloan Kettering provided no other options.  So we began chemotherapy and a 10-month journey of doctor’s appointments, emergency room visits and chemo sessions.  We held out hope that Ted would be one of the miracles.  I’d done a lot of searching on the internet and found a forum for his type of cancer.  Most of the news was not good, but there were a few success stories—Why couldn’t Ted be one of them?  As Steve Jobs said in his commencement speech at Stanford in 2005, “Sometimes life’s going to hit you in the head with a brick – don’t lose faith.”  We did our best to keep the faith for as long as we could.

When I look back, the 10 months sped by.  When we were in the midst of it, it seemed interminable.  Ted did the heavy lifting (chemotherapy is definitely heavy lifting)—I did my best to keep him comfortable—Accompanied him to every doctor's appointment and every chemo session and made sure he was seated in front of a cancer-fighting saying on the wall in the chemo room-looked for food that he could tolerate—made soups and broths and other recipes from any cancer fighting cookbook that I and Rashida could find.  We often talked about this new life as our “new normal”.  It wasn’t what we wanted and not what we planned but we played the cards we were dealt.

 In addition to fighting the cancer, Ted dealt with anxiety and depression stemming from his diagnosis.  I promised him that from the time he was diagnosed, I would do all that I could for him and that in a clinch (which this definitely was) I was his person—I had his back.  And I did.  Since his cancer was intestinal, he continued to lose weight. He wasn’t a large person anyway so he became very thin—and with his weight went his strength.  We worked with a nutritionist to try to add calories to his diet with things like Ensure and Benecalorie but he hated the taste so I had to become really creative at hiding the supplements in his food. As time went on, he was able to eat less and less, rested a lot and talked little. 

Watching your loved one suffer is never easy but when he stopped talking, it was like I lost my best friend.  Oh, he made sure everything was in order and that I knew accounts, passwords and his wishes—all the academic stuff but it was hard to reach him emotionally--conversations were few now.  So I did what I could do. Made sure he was comfortable.  He didn’t want to see many people so I became his gatekeeper.  He didn’t want to be far from me, so I didn’t often take friends up on their offers to sit with him while I ran errands.  I have few regrets (other than that he got cancer at all).  I continued to tell him how much I loved him, give him hugs and make him comfortable until his last breath.  He often remarked that even though he did not look like “my Ted” anymore, I still loved him and gave him hugs and kisses.  My response?  “All I see is my Ted”.  And that was the truth.

 I’ve learned a few things from this experience and I’m sure there’s more learning to come.  The outside wrapper is really not that important.  I was telling Rashida that its kind of like a balloon.  The spirit (like the helium in a balloon) is what gives life and buoyancy to a person—the spirit is really what we love and revere.  The outer package is not that important.  Of course it is what we see in the beginning and since we don’t know the person, it is initially what attracts us but any long time relationship has got to delve beneath the surface and get to the real essence of the person.  Somewhere along the 40-year relationship that Ted and I shared we found the essence. So, it really didn’t matter what he looked like to me – All I saw was the person I loved—the spirit within.